Turns out Lucien isn't so weightless after all.
Heaving him onto the horse takes half an hour of grunting, slipping, cursing, and praying I don't rip open the holes already leaking black blood through his shirt. By the time we ride out of the forest and leave the bodies behind, the sun is high and blinding, and I'm shaking with exhaustion.
He slumps against my back, heavy and limp, arms hanging loosely around my waist. I barely breathe, afraid to jostle him, whispering to the damned horse not to gallop. It doesn't matter. Every time the wind picks up, Lucien groans, complaining about something or nothing, and then goes quiet again, his head dropping against my shoulder.
His skin is clammy. His pulse, weak. His breaths, uneven. Each one feels smaller than the last.
I can't stop glancing back, afraid that one time I'll look and he won't be breathing at all.
